Green Machine.

22 Feb

I wish I didn’t look like such an idiot while eating salad. There is no way to form an agreeable bite of lettuce on a fork without having to twist your mouth in positions you didn’t know possible, sticking out your lips like a chimpanzee trying to suck ants off a nearby branch. It’s just not attractive. Neither is spaghetti for that matter. Unfortunately, both are two of the most popular meal choices when going out on dates, seeing as Italian is the popular cuisine when it comes to match-making. If you ever find yourself in an emergency situation like this, order breadsticks, and breadsticks only. They’re delicious, easy to manipulate, simple to eat, and as a plus, you can make up an extravagant tale about how you are an ultra-marathon runner, and you need to carb load for the big race tomorrow. Now you look ambitious, fit, AND committed. Recipe for success.

If you are accidentally exposed to the news every now and again like I am (media is everywhere, I can’t avoid it), you have probably heard about the recent incident involving Tiger Woods. Woods claims he wrecked his SUV into a fire hydrant at 2:30 a.m., “trapping” him inside his vehicle until his wife valiantly “rescued” him by smashing in his window with a golf club, horribly mauling his face with a golf club in her heroic efforts.

….not even Kendra from The Girls Next Door would believe that story, and she’s legally retarded.

Where do I begin. For starters, if you are driving a large SUV, it’s going to take a lot more than a 30 inch fire hydrant to a) stop your vehicle in a crash, and b) TRAP you inside of it. Was Tiger just confused from the crash, and didn’t realize he had three other doors AND a sunroof to escape out of? A fire hydrant “trapping” someone inside an SUV is like saying that a chipmunk stopped Oprah Winfrey from walking down the sidewalk. Not going to happen. A wife taking a golf club to her husband’s vehicle sounds a lot more like revenge and angst, not heroism.

Tiger, if you think that you are fooling even one single person into believing that you did NOT cheat on your wife so that in turn she bludgeoned you with your own golf club to spite you and your profession in the middle of the night as she chased you out of the driveway, causing you to crash your SUV into a fire hydrant, you belong in a mental institution where doctors and psychologists can examine and study you. Have celebrities not yet learned that they simply cannot cheat on their spouses and get away with it? For crying out loud.

It’s funny to me that in this country, we drink to both celebrate and mourn. Your team won the game? Let’s get shitfaced! Your team lost the game? Let’s get shitfaced! You ace a test, you binge drink. You fail a test miserably, you binge drink. What a confusing people we are.

It is so frigid inside the basement of my home that I have actually resorted to going into the tiny bathroom, plugging in my blow-dryer, and just turning it on; leaving it to fill the tiny space with heat in an effort to warm up and not lose my fingers and toes to frostbite. I have to pile multiple blankets on my body when I watch tv in order to keep blood circulating through my extremities. It’s serious. Someone chop me some wood, and get a fire blazing in this basement before I lose my life.

Only one more day until Trent and I take off for Vail, Colorado for the snowboarding trip we’ve been drooling over. We’ll be there an entire week; I literally cannot wait. Unfortunately, the snow report shows that only 3% of the mountain is open because of the lack of snow. This is problematic, because snowboarding without snow is just…boarding. Last time I checked, that’s something you have to pay for, plus you have to share a public bathroom. (I’m not funny). BUT, today I checked the weather report for the next ten days, and we are in LUCK! Snow literally every single day next week. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, AND Friday are going to be a winter wonderland. WOOOO!!!! I just got my new boots in the mail….I might piddle in my pants.

One part of this voyage I can do without is the 13 hour drive. For some reason my left ass cheek just doesn’t travel well. By the time we’re well into the fourth hour of cruising, my left cheek feels like it’s been doing Stair Masters for ten other people by itself. It’s not good. Plus, biologically, something about long car rides puts me into a coma. That leaves Trent by himself driving down seven hundred miles of asphalt, fending off drunken-like drowsiness by his lonesome while I drool on my own shoulder in the front seat. And then I just feel bad.

Oh well.

Now it’s time for me to get my Christmas gift wrapping on.

“Now he’s Johnny Hammersticks, hammerin’ away like he’s freaking Tommy Noble.”

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